"espies" poems
Arrow upon arrow the stricken heart endured,
Strife and doom its woeful dream ensured.
Vile phantoms of creed with deception en route
Intended to thwart, unveil their wicked fruit.
Satan had withered our spirit's joy and flame,
And gathered an earthly militia; among those to blame.
A maze he encrypted, the heir's light yet unseen,
All prospects stolen, great efforts wiped clean.
Creative their mind twilight art they presented,
The Sphere's evil hosts all reflected and resented.
Lost was all hearing, faith and sight,
Misplaced sense of wonder and good sense in flight.
"I worship nothing!" His heir once preferred,
Such was the spirit in high degrees deterred.
"Paragons of justice, will I ever get to see
The day my misfortunes cease to be?
They shadow, entrap and starve my soul
Of love and joy and all control!
So tired I am, and tired I shall stay
If purpose here is merely to convey
No purpose at all, except for one:
To enslave the soul, casting punishment for fun.
My simple wish, then, is simply to impart
An end to this misery and to my sanctioned heart."
His despairing heir put in motion so
An idea most frightening, its telling shall forego...
Immerse in their demise, allow for stricken grief,
Then foresee the King's love and His graciousness in fleet.
He gathered around, with love He replaced
Satan and his minions conspiring in space;
The King broke off the heir's chains with great might,
He enlightened our spirit, who had not known the light.
The heir's desperate cries reached The King's vibrations,
He released the heir and nullified all limitations.
Profound divine wisdom our heir now espies;
Seeing The King's glory and the through destroyer's lies.
Great wisdom and revelation now fill this mended heart,
But it's a tale best left for another form of art...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
1239
Risk is the Hair that holds the Tun
Seductive in the Air—
That Tun is hollow—but the Tun—
With Hundred Weights—to spare—
Too ponderous to suspect the snare
Espies that fickle chair
And seats itself to be let go
By that perfidious Hair—
The “foolish Tun” the Critics say—
While that delusive Hair
Persuasive as Perdition,
Decoys its Traveller.
2.3k
An annoyance generator is my mind,
Unjust in its creation. Lack of sleep,
Deviation, stokes the flames
And gesticulations.
My mind, pushed back
Espies the show, as
Mouth bites back the bile.
Calcified my mask does grow
Inflection states my ire.
I see the change
On targets face, as
Fury hits its mark.
Yet at my core
I query why, I
Don't reign in the fire.
Consumed with wrath,
Mind takes back seat,
Puppet slays the master,
How can I, who claims the throne
Escape from Pandemonium?
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
The world is out of balance: koyaanisqatsi!
Numinous, my heart's nemophilist alerted to the danger,
yet presently in rasasavada, espies the solstace moon and cries
in acatalepsy: Mamihlapinatapai with the hunter within...
Should I embrace this smultronställe,
cought in the ostranenie of meliorism,
or drift from this vorfrued to sophresyne;
My only desire is the nurishing erlebnisse of metanoia,
of my dérive towards sehnsucht:
of rasasavada, that I may insulate myself from the Weltanschauung
of modern society, hiraeth to a nefelibata.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
In the garden in Corniche
In the playground bound by a metal fence,
While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,
The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby
Start prickling;
Cries out that
For one who knows how to score goals,
The hunger to kick a ball
Is the ultimate one!
Me? I shall remain nameless!
The fisherman
Whose whole body tingles
As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks
Even while swimming for life,
Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,
The nun, whose ******* start secreting
As she watches a bawling baby,
Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery
The swimmer,
Who crawls through the desert
On camel-back
I do not ask for anything else
Just the ball and the opposition
Let a thousand, or tens of thousands come,
Let the goal-mouth
Be miles distant,
I do not ask for anything else
Once, while carrying a load of cement
On the tenth floor,
For a moment,
A moment,
The sun tempted, as a huge ball.
The scar of the beating received
While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow
Remains on the back..
There are ***** anyone can play with.
No, all surges ahead
Do not end in goals.
There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -
Even in dreams.
There are no Arab children
In the playground now.
Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.
It scurries hither and thither
By itself,
Races outside,
Speeds towards the goal-mouth,
Sometimes ducks out of sight.
Very privately,
And even more secretly,
Ball smiled at me.
A shudder of incarnations
In my toes.
As soon as the ball and feet
Left the playground,
Two legs
Started dancing,
Betwixt twilight and night.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
There's a regret
So grinding, so immitigably sad,
Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .
Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone
Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due,
Till there seems naught so despicable as you
In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old shoe
The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie
About the beach of Time, till by and by
Death, that derides you too--
Death, as he goes
His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray,
With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;
And then--and then, who knows
But the kind Grave
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and ***** and crave?
'Poor fool that might--
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to me
In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
1.1k
She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.
nerves
She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.
friendship
She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.
spoken
"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"
back
Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.
time
Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.
grins
Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.
Killers
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
Oh Jonnie you’d rather espies
Needles in your eyes
Than be asked...
Don’t hassle me man ! you decry ,
As the fur begins to fly
And she tells you to ‘get a life’;
Now you said all there is to be said
Once you said it, citing something you read,
No point in saying it twice;
Though you turned down all offers of choice
You still speak of having no voice,
What a paradox in electric socks,
Now you’re starting to climb right out of your box,
But though Jonnie, I hardly knew you,
I saw through you, not a great view,
Poor you, poor you, poor you!
Wish I would, perhaps I should, if only I could.
But I can’t;
There’s a war on, and the milk’s gone
Off, and... oh... always something else that’s wrong
All the time, everywhere,
With that guy that you met on the stair
Who definitely wasn’t all there,
And most of the people don’t care
Enough; And the time speeds by, for the mob and I,
Though change will come, when you can add up the sum,
And the answer you find
When you peel back the rind,
You’re guaranteed not to like it,
No, no, no.. You won’t like it...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 2:39 AM UTC
Seeing a vessel.
A catcher of fishes.
Espies another catcher of fishes.
These little fellows are destined for dishes.
Crew watching the crying ones.
The gulls as they rise.
Screaming wildly, they're on fire with excitement.
Gulls watch the Herrings, as they're breaching the foam.
Flapping and flipping, they're struggling to breathe.
The trawler man in the South westerly squall.
Struggling to cling to the slippery deck.
Tries hard not to fall.
He's used to it.
Another dollar.
Another day.
Only way to scoop his pay.
He's landing his fish.
Amid the squawking and bombing.
Keen and mean.
Tatty old trawler, chugs into the safe haven of harbour.
Today's catch thrown onto the dockside.
A different gull swoops.
A sly diving skydiver,
He's diving for dinner.
Never a loser.
Always a winner.
(C) Livvi
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
My love lies 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine, within yon stand of trees.
Where upon a bed or ferns he did deeply drowse,
whilst locks of hair were tickled by the breeze.
I sat near to count the seconds pass,
till he would wake and espies my vision there.
Then into his arms I would fall at last,
loving away the longing of these past years.
Silver moonlight contrasts a God like form,
in leather breeches and shirt of linen.
Four years he was gone, I had been forlorn.
There he lay so close to home and kin.
Lashes rest upon sculpted cheeks of bronze,
hiding from me eyes of liquid brown.
Eagerly I awaited the sun of dawn,
to show me more of the marvel I had found.
Yes, my love lies now 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine within yon stand of trees.
Now eternally he does drowse,
as I fatally grieve down upon my knees.
For as the sun rose upon his stubble face,
I saw the lines of pain and of bloom erased.
Of life, my frantic hands, could find no trace.
What game is this so cruelly played by fates?
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
caught her cleaning the fingerprints off of the mirrored door,
using the ever handy bathrobe sleeve,
fabric of a thousand utilities, this one too,
me wonder, whose prints? mine, kids, hers,
could they not have remained as a history,
highway road marker, “On this site here…”
more fingers, skin-oiled, will return, the chain
unbroken, for mirrors collect memories, faces seen,
matched to prints of hands that traversed this doorway,
on the way to where, it don’t matter, signs of humans
that come and gone…erasure troubles me…not
because cleanliness is next to godliness, cause
god is mighty messy and a few prints ain’t gonna
make a big difference…but
she espies me lazy observing, annoyed, she chastises,
her reproving noises fail to include a thank you for
prints mine, most fresh, carried two mugs of coffee minutes earlier,
part of my daily chore, and a morning*
I love you, *an essay that is perfect in its abbreviation,
like a short poem sweet, so I hid my head neath the coverlet,
lest she see, me & a well hid grinning smile
sipping coffee even more
contentedly
poetry and love is and always found in the oddest places….
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 9:28 AM UTC
God made the country,
Unbeknowst to hope are we all as
Great oaks from little acorns grow;
So many countries gilt,
So many cultures, alack
unblemished feathers of eternal service
Scabbard in sheaths quilling Gods glossary
And man made the town, pilgrimiges and suffrages;
A foredoomed geniture of the Evil Ones chaology
Hewn to bell the cat.
The worst of Heavens vengeful justice is not
Always rightous as in faithfullnesses eschewal.
The Heirophants pen a tolling knell
Without any hope; least said
Heaven twice, soon mended-
As words in mode of passion are
Material manifestations and
Manners make the man whilst the
Hand that rocks the cradle cannot
Put brains into statues; but,
Yet, rule the bilge when the
Angels doxology enunciates war on
The world as the Devil espies all
And God ensconces but the few!
ELEETE J MUIR
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
The school girl espies her teacher
from the Art room studio.
She wished that she was her Mother,
for she had blonde hair and green eyes
and excelled in kindness,
reminding her of blossom apples
The girl remembers this later in life
posting it as a monochrome Memory.
It seemed a quantum leap
wishing for the impossible
to change Mothers.
The grown girl looked lovingly at her Mothers photograph
smiling from her care home,
for gentlefolk with dementia.
It was no quantum leap.
We are the Sum of our Parents
her Mothers mind danced amongst
Picket fences, keeping out the poultry
The sum of one's quest.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
Here stands a soul in search of lovers past;
a man whose mind is greying with the sky.
His limited relations seldom last,
and sadder still, he knows exactly why -
uncomplicated love is hard to find,
when with misfortune, every glance betrays
behind his eyes this sombre, dark'ning mind -
a mind that, with perspective, would amaze -
still, one that loses focus by degrees
if e'er a caustic subject he espies...
it’s difficult to bury thoughts like these
when trusting women peer into his eyes.
Perhaps he’ll figure out if he succeeds -
the complicated love’s the kind he needs.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
wont get a red cent from me
(explained by following words you see)
No...not until the
bitter cold temperature,
sans iron maiden
(Polar Vortex) grips
Southeastern Montgomery County
(Perkiomen Valley) Pennsylvania
will this foo fighting
goo goo doll, beastie boy - hips
stir survivalist
wannabe contemplate
cracking on the heat,
no matter mine lips
might turn me, and
false teeth chatter
(even after taking them
out of my mouth)
as the mercury dips
way below degrees
(Centigrade, Fahrenheit,
or Kelvin) oh Lord
will passing thought eclipse
penumbra of mine
cerebral cortex reckon eyes,
the benefits to future
cryogenicists voluntarily becoming
(a frozen human
Guinea Pig) realize
zing molecular biochemical
behavior practically
comes to a stand
still, I surmise,
which cessation of
ordinary senescence buys
time until some
future age, when scientists
long since didst devise
strategies to approach immortality,
(viz keeping "live" body
electric factory completely
preserved), and get wise
to hidden secret to exorcize
death be not
proud, thus putting
funeral parlors out of business,
which astute morticians who espies
the future, and how
the quaint practice,
asper burial plots
(oh...so yesteryear),
and dramatically dies
down quickly giving rise
to the burgeoning enterprise
re: bajillion dollar franchise,
where death cab for cutie
offers ***** prize
a coffin (grateful dead set)
"feign" to eulogize.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 1:40 AM UTC